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Wednesday, December 16, 2009

On Plum Blossoms (Li Ch'ing-chao)

This morning I woke in a bamboo bed with paper curtains.I have no words for my weary sorrow,no fine poetic thoughts.The sandalwood incense smoke is stale,the jade burner is cold.I feel as if I were filled with quivering water.To accompany my feelingssomeone plays three times on a flute"Plum Blossoms Are Fallingin a Village by the River."How bitter this Spring is.Small wind, fine rain, hisao, hsiao,falls like a thousand lines of tears.The flute player is gone.The jade tower is empty.Broken hearted- we had relied on each other.I pick a plum branch,but my man has gone beyond the sky,and there is no one to give it to.